Condemned, revisited
by Kodiak Bear Country
Summary: A look at the ramifications of what happened on Olesia, set a year after. Written for the SGAHC Story challenge.


Title: Condemned, revisited  
Author: Kodiak bear  
Rating: T  
Category: Gen, episode related  
Warning: Major spoilers for season two episode Condemned.  
Summary: A look at the ramifications of what happened on Olesia, set a year after.  
AN: Thank you Linzi, Shelly and gaffer. I would be lost without my betas, and support! All remaining mistakes are unfortunately mine.

**Condemned, revisited**

He wakes at three past the hour. It's always the same. The nurse is waiting with water and fresh sheets. He moves to the bathroom and stares uncomprehendingly at the face in the mirror. It's not glass, he knows that. He's not allowed anything he might use as a weapon, and he knows instinctively that glass could be a weapon.

The bed is remade, and he slides between the covers again, but doesn't sleep. It's always the same. When morning arrives, the new nurse waits patiently for him to dress in clean pajamas, and escorts him to the doctor's office.

The doctor's smile is brittle, and forced. "Sleep well?" he asks, but the doctor knows John didn't.

"I slept," John says.

The doctor's name is long, and when John first woke, he had a hard time remembering, so he became Steve. He knows the name has significance, but he isn't sure what. It seems to fit. It also helps that the doctor hates John calling him by that name. Steve tries to hide his irritation, because he isn't supposed to let a patient's antics get under his skin.

"We can give you medication to help," offers Steve. "But the problem won't go away."

John's heard it all before. He'd woken in a bed, strapped down, and confused. They'd said his name was John, and he'd committed crimes against The People. There wasn't a penal system here wherever here is. Instead, there were rooms with beds, and nurses and doctors, and medications. Therapy consists of being told what you'd done and that acceptance was the first step towards redemption. That the mind had to accept reality as it was, before it could recover from the atrocities it had committed.

But John knows he doesn't belong here, and he's sure he didn't commit the crimes he's accused of. He would know if the blood of thousands rested on his hands. He would _know_.

"Thanks, but I'll have to pass." He knows they are drugging him anyway. He thinks it's in the food. Or the water. But he knows it. His mind stays foggy, and his body stays weak.

Steve frowns, and swivels in his chair. "You should be thankful we saved you. There was a time not long ago when prisoners weren't so fortunate."

"If I did the things you say, maybe I don't deserve fortune."

"Let me assure you, John, these things you did," Steve says with conviction. So much so, that with a painful shock, John knows, at least in this, Steve is telling the truth...but truth can be warped.

His mouth dry, he asks, "How?"

There's a flare of something on Steve's face – anger…rage. The doctor is more unmasked than usual by John's question. "You handed our People to the enemy – to save yourself, you gave thousands over to a grisly death. Do you want to hear their dying screams? I hear them in my sleep." Steve's face twists in remembered agony and he whispers, "It's not fair that you should not hear them."

John has always believed in his innocence. He knows he's not a monster, but the emotions wash over him from Steve in brutal candor, and John knows he is, or was. He did this. He had to have done this – why else would he be here? But no, it _can't_ be - John would remember if he'd… "Why can't I remember?" he asks, stubbornly. Something isn't right.

The eyes turn cold and Steve says, "Because it didn't matter to you."

Anger in him surges this time, almost overcoming the weakness in his limbs. He jumps up and savagely denies it. "That's not true!" Deaths mattered to him, he knew that. Regardless of what he was accused of, John knew that death mattered.

Control returns to the doctor. Kindness sneaks in, whether faked or real, John can't tell. "It's not your fault, John. Something inside your brain isn't working as it should. We understand that. Our job is to make you better."

John pales because he doesn't want to be here. It's been two weeks, and he feels like he's losing himself; it scares him because all he had from the time he'd woken was a vague impression of that self.

He's on his feet before he realizes it, and starts backing towards the door. Steve pushes a button on his desk, and calls for help, and John knows he has to get out of here, no matter how tired his legs feel. He turns, and runs. The corridor is empty, but two large men come around the corner, searching for him. When he's seen, they start forward, running. John turns to face the other way, but two more men are closing from that direction, as well. He knows there's no way out, but he knows he has to try. He can't give up. John runs at the two in the direction to his left. He punches the first in the face, and surprises the man. When the guy falls, John's already trying to pull free of the grip on his arm from the other.

It's not easy, and he's pulling and struggling with everything he has. Anger again rises, rage; they've got him in a cage, and say he's done terrible things, but all he wants is to leave, to disappear, even though he doesn't know where he'd go. In desperation, John kicks out, and he hits the big guy in his nuts, causing him to release John's arm. The other guy, only stunned, is getting up, and the remaining two are closing in. John grabs him around the neck before he can get to his feet, locks his arm in place, and turns to the other two.

"Any closer and I'll snap his neck." He doesn't know how he knows, but he knows if they move, he can do it. He _knows_.

They pause, and the one he kicked is still down.

John starts pulling the bigger man back as he inches his way down the corridor. He doesn't know how he can keep going much farther, but he keeps moving. If he gives up, he'll never get out of here. He can feel it…

…just as he feels it when the dart strikes his thigh. John stares down, his arm already weakening around the terrified guy's neck. He registers two things as he slumps to the floor. That the guy really _is_ terrified, and that he's never getting out of here.

OoO

Meals are lonely here. He sits in a room with a dozen other prisoners, like him, but no one talks to him. He's not sure if that's because of what he's done, or because they're scared of him. John thinks it's because they're scared. At least some of them are. He sees it in their hooded stares. There's one though, one that hates John, and he doesn't know why. Every time John sees him, the man is staring at him with loathing and ferocity. It almost scares John.

Since his escape attempt, he has a guard. It's a male nurse, and he's always shadowing John. He's standing behind him now. Hands clasped together, standing laconically, but John knows it's not a regular nurse. This one is strong, and mean, and could probably break _John's_ neck.

He stirs the soup listlessly. He's not hungry. They make him eat even when he isn't. They say they are responsible for his health, and that they won't allow him to starve.

There's a commotion at the door, and John looks up, startled. A new man is being led in, and he's bitching loudly.

"I get that you're big, and muscled, and I'm supposed to go when you blink, but it takes time for the brain to interpret visual cues, and send commands to the limbs. Granted, it's an infinitesimally small amount of time in the scheme of eternity, but instantaneousness is not a possibility – get over it."

The male nurse shoves the babbling man forward roughly, and he stumbles, before catching himself, scowling. "Shutting up now," the man mutters. He scans the room, and his eyes lock on to John's. At first, there's an instant light of recognition, and…happiness? But whatever it was, the man quickly covers it, and saunters over to the serving station to retrieve a bowl of soup before grabbing a drink and spoon, and then he walks until he's standing at John's table. "Seat taken? Of course not, don't mind if I join you." He's sitting even as he asks. "Is there citrus in this?" He's holding the drink aloft, staring at it uncertainly, as if it might contain poison.

John clears his throat, not really sure what to make of this. "Citrus?" he repeats dumbly.

"Never mind, even on a good day you can be obtuse," the man replies irritably. He sips some of the soup and brightens. "This isn't bad."

"You know me?"

His question throws the man off. The spoon stills on the return trip, and he says, glancing at the nurse-guard for the briefest of moments, "Of course not. We've never met. What would make you say something like that?"

"You said, 'even on a good day you can be', meaning, you know me. Or knew me." John isn't even sure he knows himself. It's as if his world started three weeks ago when he woke up here. Sometimes, he'll do something, and a memory whispers at him – but when he tries to grab it, the memory is gone, and he's never really sure it was there to begin with.

The man coughs, wipes his face and shakes his head. All of it makes John think the man is nervous. "Did I? Sorry – I get nervous when I'm arrested and sentenced to a mental institution for rehabilitation, and I say stupid things. It's a bane of my existence," he says, laughing somewhat hysterically.

"What did you do?" John has a hard time imagining this timid man capable of hurting anything.

An odd look comes over his face, and he studies his soup. "I – stole something." His head comes up and the odd look is gone, leaving defiance in its wake. "Stole something very important."

A thief, then. "You're kind of big for a thief," John says. "What's your name?"

"Bond," the man says, with a crooked grin. He holds a hand out across the table. "James Bond. And yours?"

"John," he says. He takes the hand in his own and shakes, knowing it's the right thing to do. James's hand is dry, his grip firm. "Just John."

Another odd look steals across James's face. "Nice to meet you, John," he says thickly. James stares at his soup bowl, and then looks at John's. "Are you going to finish that? I'm starving."

John shakes his head and shoves the bowl over. "Help yourself."

The male nurse-guard taps John on the shoulder. "Meal time is over," he grunts. "The doctor is waiting."

John stands, and as he's walking out the door, a sudden thought strikes him, and he turns to look at James, surprised to see that James is watching him. Smiling weakly, because James is the first person that's really talked to him, John waves, and then turns to walk out of the room.

OoO

"Have you remembered more of your actions?" Steve asks over steepled fingers. His office is large, and a window lets in the sunlight. John can see dust motes suspended in the sunbeams. There are curtains of yellow tied back with bold stripes of sea foam green. The desk is a large work of hardwood, the chairs carved from the same. The floors are bare, though, harder than the wood in the furniture, and cold. Always cold. John has socks, but he doesn't like to wear them. The tan pajamas all of the patients wear do little to keep him warm.

"All I have is what you tell me," John says. He's getting sick of being brought here. The sessions start the same, and end the same. Steve wants him to remember, but when John doesn't, he gets upset and cycles through the anger, the rage, and John always begins to doubt himself.

"That's not good enough, John." Steve surprises him by not continuing the cycle today. He stands, and walks to the door, waving at someone that John can't see. "We've got a device – it helps the individual remember." He turns back to stare at John and says, "You want to remember, don't you?"

"If it were real," admits John. He's not being dishonest when he says that. He does want to remember. He had a past. Who he was – it has to be locked up in his head somewhere. Who you are just doesn't disappear one day. "I've asked you to tell me who I am. Where I was born, hell," John laughs harshly, "where we are – but you tell me I have to remember. How can I when I have nowhere to start at?"

He suddenly realizes he's done just what Steve wanted. The trap had been laid, and he'd sprung it. Stupid, he was stupid. The gleam of satisfaction in Steve's eyes was all too real. "That's what we're going to give you."

"What if I don't want it?"

The smile is scary in its pleasantness. "You don't have a choice, John."

Two big guys walk in, and one carries a device. It looks like a gun, almost, and if John didn't know better, he'd think they were going to shoot him. But then he knows that'd end this rehabilitation, which Steve seems to view as punishment. John knew Steve wasn't ready to end it.

The gun is pushed against his temple, and panic flares. Steve has settled on the edge of his desk, and watches, while one of the nurse-guards holds his shoulders down and the other is ready to pull the trigger. He wants to fight, shout, to pull away, but he sees the gleam again in Steve's eyes and knows this is about more than remembering. He won't give Steve the satisfaction of seeing him squirm. John grinds his teeth, but keeps his body still, his head steady. "Do it," he says.

Steve nods, looking over John's head. The cold metal pushes harder, suddenly, and he hears a shot, but it's not in the room, it's somewhere else – it's not a shot, it's a scream. Thousands of people are screaming. He's standing in a city; a beautiful city. Tall spires of buildings reach up, round domes smooth out the architecture. There is glass, and white. It makes him think of…pain. There's a lot of pain, and anger. Betrayed? Him, or was he the one who did the betraying?

The sky is so blue he thinks he should see waves in it, the air smells so clean, John thinks of tall fields and trees, with mountains capped in crisp white snow. But it grew dark, in a rush, like storm clouds on the horizon moving fast, and the screams surge anew. The sky isn't blue anymore, it's black, so very black and when he looks up, it isn't a sky at all. Ships – at least two and so many smaller ships that it seems as if a mother insect is spawning in the very air above the city.

He turns away, and looks around at the people running for their lives. Children are dropped by frantic parents when others run them over, knock them down. There are explosions, and spires disintegrate. The insect ships swoop low and domes are peeled open like overripe fruit. It is chaos and destruction, and it is the end of days. _This_ is his crime? The scope – thousands of dead, and dying. Maybe more. It isn't _possible_.

John burns with the denial, and then he just burns…

OoO

He wakes at three past the hour – it's four in the morning, and the nurse is waiting. He stumbles out of bed, and walks unsteadily to the bathroom. He doesn't remember being brought back to his bed. He doesn't remember anything after the memories brought on by that machine. Bile is on his tongue, and the denial is there, too.

John stares in the mirror. Lifting a hand, he rubs the stubble and vows to ask for a shave in the morning. They make him ask. He's not allowed to have razors. He's only been here three weeks, but he knows there are many mind games going on. They need him to realize that everything he has is from their benevolence. That his very life is from their benevolence. If his beard gets shaved, it is their good will that allows it.

He sighs, and returns to his bed. The nurse is gone, but James is there. John stumbles even more, unsure of what James is doing. Surely being here in his room at this hour was against the rules? Was James trying to get him in trouble? "What are you doing here?" he asks, gruff.

"You look like hell, John." James pats the bed. "Sit. I wanted to see how you were doing. You missed dinner and when I tried to visit earlier they told me you were sleeping."

John doesn't know what James is up to, but he sits, because honestly, he isn't sure his legs will keep him up much longer. "Why do you care?" he asks.

"Who said I did?" retorts James.

He shrugs and points out, "You're here."

James's face scrunches and he kind of frowns. "Right. Well, be that as it may, I was worried. I didn't say I cared."

"If you're worried, you care." John was too tired for verbal sparring.

"That's a fallacy. Worry doesn't equate to caring – there could be a lot of reasons for why I'm worrying. You should get out more, take a walk. Have you seen the garden? Very soothing."

John is slowly slumping into the bed, his fatigue stealing his coherence, but he gathers James is trying to tell him something. The garden? Does he want John to meet him out there? "I'll look t'mrrow," he slurs.

"You do that," James replies, his voice sounding odd. He pulls John's blanket up over his shoulders and helps John straighten in bed.

OoO

Four hours later, after gagging down the cold cereal they'd had for breakfast, John wanders out to the gardens. He hasn't seen James at breakfast, but it is served over a period of an hour and a half, and not all of the patients eat at the same time. Another new face had showed with breakfast, but this patient was quiet and didn't say anything. She went where she was told without speaking, and sat, her eyes scanning the room. John thought she'd lingered on him, but he was beginning to feel paranoid.

Flowers of many colors grow along a path of gravel. It crunches under his feet. He still feels an internal dissonance from the memory machine. If James doesn't show soon, John will return to his room. His nurse-guard isn't far behind. He is never far behind, but today, there is a female nurse walking with him, and his attention isn't entirely on John.

The gardens are large, but he knows there is a fence. It is taller than two of him, and topped with wire that will grab your skin and rip. He'd been too tired and weak to escape after his first attempt, but another patient had tried soon after John's aborted effort. They'd brought him back, bleeding profusely from numerous cuts. The man had had to be fed for days while his hands healed enough to grasp again.

"The sunlight will do you good," James says, walking out from behind a large leafy bush. "You're paler than a Wraith."

"Weren't you the one who bought stock in sunscreen?" John says it without thinking but then doesn't know what it means.

It must've meant something to James, because a grin splits his face, and he whispers, "You remember." Then he sees the confusion John feels, and the grin crumbles slightly. "Maybe not – something of you remembers."

"You know who I am?" John lowers his voice as well, and risks a glance back at the nurse-guard. He's in deep conversation with the woman and not paying him any attention.

James looks pained. "I know you won't understand, but it's too soon to tell you. I need you to trust me, John. Whatever happens, I'm not going to leave you, do you understand?"

He's staring at John intently, and John believes him. He grasps James's arm, a sudden need to know. "Did I do what they say?"

"They're liars, John. Bastards. What they've done…"

"What have they done?" the nurse-guard grumbles in a rough baritone voice behind John.

James blanches, and he pulls his arm free of John. "The NHL – idiots. All of them," he answers quickly. "I'll see you at lunch, John."

He melts back into the path, and John watches as his back disappears into the flowery bushes. He fights the urge to go after James and find out more, but he knows something is happening, something he doesn't understand and should.

John walks by the game room. There are a handful of patients playing games that John doesn't recognize. He's wondered why he doesn't know how to play them, but didn't ask. Today, though, he wanders in instead of returning to his room. One man is playing with another woman. There is a board, and lines streak up the board. On the lines were markers and some markers held pegs, while others remained empty. The lines crisscrossed up to the top, where they ended in a single point. The woman he saw at breakfast is in there talking to another patient. This one he's seen since the first week. The man is big, intimidating. He's always seemed dangerous to John.

They both stare at him as he enters, and on a whim, he walks to them. "My name's John," he says.

The woman assesses him carefully, and a small smile creeps onto her lips. "My name is Charrin."

The gruff man, who easily could've taken on John's nurse-guard, sizes him up. He doesn't smile but says, "Androcles."

Charrin's hair is short, like a boy's cut, and black as night. She wears something on her eyes…glasses. Androcles has shorter hair, cut close to his head, and his face is clean shaven. John wonders how often he asks them to shave his face, or maybe Androcles gets to keep a razor? Funny, because James had a beard, thin, but it looked unkept, as if he hadn't shaved in weeks.

"What are you playing?" John asks. He doesn't know why, but suddenly, sitting down with these two and joining their game sounds like a good idea. Besides, he's very tired today, more than normal. He wonders if it's the machine, or if they've increased his drugs. He wishes he could stop eating and drinking, but knows he can't. Whichever route they are using to get it into his system, he can't prevent it.

"Poker," Charrin says, watching him carefully.

John glances at the cards, realizing he hadn't noticed them before. "Are these new?"

She shakes her head. "I brought them with me. You do not recognize them?"

He lifts the plastic pieces, and fingers them. Then splits the deck in half, and fans the halves into each other, tapping the combined deck until the cards are flush with one another. "Five card stud, jokers' wild?" He says it, but he doesn't remember what it means.

Androcles' grin is feral.

They play until lunch. Charrin says she is in for civil disobedience, while Androcles says he'd gotten in a fight. Apparently a big fight. John doesn't know either of them, but he finds himself feeling at ease during their game, and though the chemically induced tiredness remains, some of the heaviness feels lifted.

He leaves them to eat lunch, because he knows Steve is waiting. For the first time, John wishes he could avoid his daily session with the doctor. He doesn't want another treatment with the memory device. The sandwich tastes like sawdust, and he doesn't see James. He's not sure if the latter causes the former.

When nurse-guard orders him to finish, John throws three-fourths of his lunch in the refuse bin.

As he moves to leave, the man that hates him, and John knows it's hate; the deep, dark kind, that will never be assuaged, not even in death; jumps at him, snarling and swearing. "They should've let me kill you!"

John's surprised, and the drugs dull his response time. The man takes him down to the floor before he starts fighting back, but he does fight back. Even with a reduced capacity, John can fight, he _knows_ that. He hits, kicks, and soon the older man is lying on his back, wheezing and with blood dripping off his nose and mouth. John has similar lines of blood running down his face, but he won.

"What have I done to you?" spits John. He's fed up with being the brunt of this man's wrath, for no reason that he can remember.

Nurse-guard is remaining aloof, watching events unfold. The man wheezing on his back closes his eyes, and fists his hands against them. John thinks he's sobbing. "My name?" he cries. "Do you even know my name?" The cry is angry and snarling.

"I don't know you," John insists. He pushes himself up and stares at the man, surprised by the pity he feels.

The man opens his eyes, and they're hollow. "You knew me as Magistrate." A crazy laugh and he says, "Magistrate of the beautiful city that you condemned."

"You're wrong. I didn't condemn anyone." John walks away, not even looking back at the man. He didn't do it. He couldn't have. He knows how to fight, even knows how to kill – but he didn't betray an entire city of innocents to what he'd seen in those memories created by that device. A person would know if they were capable of something that terrible – wouldn't they?

OoO

"You got into a fight." Steve sits in his chair, fingering the memory device. Every day the façade of kindness slips that much further.

John grunts. "He started it."

"But you finished it," observes Steve. "The darkness in you repeatedly comes to the surface, yet you refuse to admit the atrocities you've done."

"Because I didn't do them!" John shouts, because he knows Steve is lying. He knows none of this can be real. Why is he here, who is…was…he? "I want to see my friends," he says suddenly. "I existed before I woke up in this rehabilitation center. I want to know who I was. Why are you keeping it from me?" He pushes now.

"You don't have friends here!" Steve shouts back. He stands, and leans on the desk. "What you have are enemies." He leans back and chuckles as the quicksilver rages leaves. "Many, many enemies. The Magistrate wants to murder you with his bare hands." Steve sits down. "We are doing our best to do what's right by you, but it is hard, John. Hard to stare at your face, and see you alive, while so many of our loved ones are dead."

"That Magistrate is a patient, too. What did he do?" John isn't backing down today. If they are determined to do this to him, he is equally determined to get answers.

"The Magistrate bargained our People," Steve replies coldly. "But you sentenced them."

John reaches in his mind for something past the darkness that was the time before he'd come here. "A trial." He found something. It means something. "Did I get a trial?"

Steve lifts the device, and moves toward John. He smiles, but it's one that you see when someone is doing something awful and enjoying every moment of it. He leans in close. "I know my position means I should be unbiased, but I can't. My wife, my son, my baby daughter – they _died_ because of you. I know this device hurts. I _know_, John, and I want to see you hurt."

Before he can protest, the hard barrel is shoved against his head, again. He hears the shot, it's like electric current piercing his skull, and John feels his muscles go rigid, and his back arch away from the chair.

The city is in flames. The spires and domes are gone, the people are gone, and all that's left are skeletons and rubble. John walks through the empty streets, staring at the carnage. It stinks like burnt flesh and ozone. He swallows against the bile, again. He sees a small skeleton on the ground, the bony fingers still clutching a rag doll, and he drops to his knees. He didn't do this. He _didn't_! Nobody could do this, and still stay sane. They couldn't.

He throws his head back and screams at Steve to stop it. To take him away from this dead, awful place. He screams…

He wakes at three past the hour, still screaming. John stares at the nurse, and realizes James is next to her. Embarrassed at being seen like this, John gets up, and stumbles to his bathroom. His face is haggard, drawn, and he knows he's lost weight. It's going on four weeks, he thinks. He splashes water on his face, and returns to find the nurse gone but James is still there.

"I heard you screaming," he says in way of an explanation.

John nods. "Sorry about that."

James looks funny. Tight, and controlled, upset by something. "Don't be," he says, and he barks it like an order. He's turning to leave when he whispers more gently, "Please, don't be."

When he's gone, John wishes he was back. James cares, and he doesn't know why, but he needs it. He wants it. He's so alone here. He wonders what Charrin and Androcles are doing – probably sleeping at this hour. He wishes he could remember his own memories, not those created by the device.

Sleep doesn't come again, and John staggers to breakfast, even more uneven than usual. He doesn't see James, but he does see Androcles and Charrin, and he sits by them. They're both staring too much, and he regrets his decision. "Nightmares," he explains, wanting them to quit looking at him like that.

Charrin nods solemnly. "I understand."

But Androcles is angry, and he stuffs a spoonful of cold cereal in his mouth. "You won't have them much longer," he growls finally.

John wants to ask what he means, but nurse-guard arrives, taking position behind John like a hovering helicopter. Frowning, he asks Charrin, "What's a helicopter?"

Her forehead relaxes with a smile. "It is a big flying vehicle with many blades. You talk of them often."

After she says it, she glances furtively at the nurse-guard, but he wasn't paying attention, and John wonders what she is suddenly afraid of. Androcles knows, though. He's glaring at Charrin. "Eat," he orders.

They spend the rest of the meal in silence, and when Charrin mentions it would be a lovely day for a walk in the gardens, John decides to take her up on the offer. Androcles follows.

When they reach the very rear, he sees James standing by a large tree, its limbs heavy with fruit and smelling so sweet it almost makes John sick. James is subdued, and John remembers when they first brought him in, almost a week ago. He'd been loud then. But this place has quickly depleted the man. John wishes James didn't have to be here. He knows James belongs elsewhere. Somewhere beautiful. "Sorry again, for last night."

James shakes his head, angry. "Say that again, and I won't be held responsible for my actions."

John senses a brittleness in James. He sighs. It's wrong, this is wrong, but he's powerless to know what or why. He just _knows_. "I'm s…" John stops, and looks at James, and the look is petulant and incredulous, and John laughs. "Did you eat yet? Wouldn't want that blood sugar to drop too low."

He stares at John, shock replacing the other emotions, and he steps forward, almost unwillingly. "What'd you say?"

"Did you eat?" John repeats, because even now, the other – it doesn't make any sense.

"Not that," James says scornfully. "Don't hide from me, John."

"I'm not hiding. I don't know – something about sugar, but I don't even understand it, let alone know why I said it."

Androcles had stayed back and coerced the nurse-guard into conversation, but Charrin is there, and she interrupts, "James – do not push John. He will remember soon."

"What will I remember?" explodes John. At the sharp look from Charrin, he lowers his voice. "You know who I am – I can tell. But I don't know you. What is happening to me?"

James exchanges a look with Charrin, and she shakes her head strongly. She turns to John, and her face is sad. "I'm sorry, John. We cannot say more. Just know, you are not alone."

"Why," begs John. These people _know_. Why won't they tell him who he is?

"We cannot," Charrin repeats.

Before she can apologize again, John shakes his head. "That's not good enough," he snarls. The answers are there, in the palm of his hand, and he can't have it. He needs to know – needs to know if he is the murderer that Steve claims he is. Charrin is reaching for him, and James steps closer, but John turns his back on them, and stalks away, back to his room. He needs to be alone.

The Magistrate is still missing at lunch, and John eats quickly, hoping to avoid running into James, or Charrin or even Androcles. He can't stand the thought of looking at them and knowing they know, but won't tell him. He can't stand it because he wonders if it's because they know what he's done, and don't want him to know. Maybe it is that bad.

When he's taken to Steve, John wants it this time. Before he sits, he asks Steve, "When did I do this…thing?"

Steve seems surprised by John's confrontational nature. "A year ago," he answers honestly.

"And you're just now rehabilitating me?"

"We only recently managed to capture you."

John sits, trying to think on the answers. "Where was I in that year?"

"Places," Steve answers evasively. "Some we don't know. We've been trying to find you for a long time, John."

He licks his lips, but his mouth is dry. He has so many questions, but he doesn't think he can trust Steve. John thinks that the only truth Steve has to offer is what Steve believes in. "And you found me?"

Steve laughs, as if the world were a grand joke. "You came to us," he said, lost in his own mirth. "Our home world had long ago established a colony on another planet, just in case of a disaster. I was here giving a conference for penal reform when you caused the destruction of our home world. But you weren't told of our colony, and four weeks ago, you came here, seeking trade, but we knew who you were. We knew, because reports were transmitted daily, until the final report, brought by the Magistrate, right as the end was visited upon my family, my friends…my _world_!" Steve slams a fist against the hard wood. He's lost in his own private agony, and John knows this man will find no peace, ever. He knows now what he sees in Steve's eyes. He sees nothing. Nothing at all.

He almost says 'I'm sorry', but catches himself. If he did do it, then saying sorry wasn't enough. Could never be enough, and if he hadn't done it, then apologizing for something he didn't do was stupid.

Steve fingers the device, and twists it in his hand. "I was going to use this on you again," he says conversationally. "But now I don't think I will." He stares at John. "Memory loss is a result of your initial therapy, and now I'm finding your inability to remember - it's more of a punishment for you than anything else I can possibly do. I've given you the memories you need to have, and those are the only ones you'll see at night when you sleep…during the day when you close your eyes. When you see me, when you see the gardens – every memory you have now is of being here, and of the destruction of my world." Steve sets the device down. "Enjoy your hell, John. For we are in it together."

Steve pulls out another device, and raises it to his own head, and suddenly John _knows_. His screams bring the nurse-guard, and then more arrive, and soon John is manhandled back to his room, where the same nurse that always changes his sheets steers him gently to the bathroom.

She seems on the verge of tears, and John thinks at first it's for Steve. He's numb. She wets a rag, and wipes away the blood that's sticky on his face, and neck. When she's finished, she helps him into a new pair of clean tan pajamas, and then pushes him back to his bed. He moves like an automaton, frozen in the horror of the moment. He wants to sleep, and sleep, and not dream, but he knows the dreams are waiting. They will always be waiting. Steve made sure of that.

As she pulls the blanket up, she whispers, "Not much longer, John. I promise."

OoO

He wakes at three past the hour, but the nurse isn't holding sheets. She's holding a gun, and standing with her is James, Androcles and Charrin.

John pushes up, feeling even weaker than before. "Now?" he asks, afraid to believe.

Charrin nods, "Yes, John. Now."

James takes one arm, while Androcles takes the other. Together they help him into the hall, and he's surprised to see nurse-guards down everywhere. They look asleep…stunned. That's the word. He _knows_.

The way to the door was clear, but just as they rush into the gardens, another patient, one he suddenly remembers, stands in her tan pajamas and cries, "Colonel Sheppard, take me with you!"

"Marin?" he calls back.

But James savagely taps a button on something in his ear, and snaps, "Now!" and the world dissolves in white light, before reforming in silver and a large open room with beds.

A man wearing a uniform of blue pants, and blue jacket, comes forward. "John," he says kindly. "Lad, we're glad to have you back."

"I don't…" he feels like hiding. Everyone was staring at him, and he doesn't know them, and he doesn't know this place. But they know him, and the warmth wasn't pretend, or forced. John remembers what he felt from James, and Charrin, and Androcles. They care. His mind is a mess, and a flash of sharp, hot agony rips through his skull. Throwing a hand against his head, John cries out from the pain.

The man in blue rushes forward, and grabs John. "Without your regular dose, it'll worsen from here on out," he says, and John isn't sure who he's talking to.

He's helped to a bed, and as the pain recedes, he tries to focus on the faces. "James," John calls.

James walks closer, and hovers.

"Keep anything from me again, and I'm going to punch you," he threatens good-naturedly. "Without the personal shield." He knows that last part, it came and went as he said it, was like the blood sugar comment. Pieces of his memories reasserting themselves for only a moment, before washing away again, like the tide.

"Androcles would protect me," James retorts. The big man snorts, and shakes his head, and James looked irritated. "Fine, then Charrin would."

Charrin sighs, and eyes both disapprovingly. "Only because I would not wish to hear you complain."

The nurse, she moves into the area, and says loudly, "I think John needs his rest." She stares pointedly at the man in blue, and John realizes the man is pushing a tray with supplies closer and he's suddenly a lot more nervous. The woman notices his fear and covers his hand with her own. "Shhh, John – you're safe here. There are no dreams tonight."

He stays quiet, and notices that James, Androcles, and Charrin have quieted, and their faces are hard for him to look at. James looks upset; as if his best friend has died. Charrin is angry, but worried, John thinks. Androcles – he's the one that scares John, because his face is one of fury, and John hates to think that fury could ever be focused on him. He knows it isn't now. It's for the ones that did this to him. For Steve, but Steve is dead, and John almost laughs at the irony.

"Who are you?" he asks them.

The man in blue begins to push a needle in John's hand, and he smiles briefly. "Carson Beckett, M.D. at your disposal, but you usually call me Doc."

The nurse, she looks like she's going to cry. Though her chin trembles, she says strongly, "Elizabeth, John. You call me Elizabeth."

James snorts. "Some day you'll truly appreciate James Bond, but you call me Rodney, McKay if you're annoyed, which is too often, by the way. Charrin is Teyla, and Ronon there is Androcles. We're your team, John, and we never left you," he says it with an odd mixture of intensity and a sardonic twist of his mouth. "No one gets left behind."

For some reason, that seems important, and John wants to ask James…Rodney…why, but whatever Doc is doing to him, it's working, because the pain is even further away, and the world is fading, too. He looks at everyone, and he knows he's safe now. He _knows_.

OoO

John sits in the Jumper, stares at the controls in the darkness. It'd all started here; it'd centered on this ship, and ended with this ship. Without the drugs to suppress it, his memory had returned in less than forty-eight hours. By the time the Daedalus was back in Atlantis space, he'd known everything again. Everything.

He stares at the darkness, and hears the hatch opening. He knows who it is. _James Bond._ If he weren't so lost, he'd enjoy the joke. But he is, because Steve was right. "You lied," he says gravely.

McKay walks to the seat, and slips in beside John. "I didn't lie," he argues.

"You said they were bastards," John says tiredly. "But we're the bastards. We're killing just as many as the Wraith."

Rodney's a scientist, and he can't argue the facts. He kicks his feet up on the console. "I never thought of it that way," he admits. Their brief time in the rehabilitation center has left both of them changed. Rodney hasn't spoken about what happened to him, but John knows McKay was having his own sessions with another doctor. They'd all done their own thing to get thrown in along with John, wanting to be with him, until the Daedalus could arrive and save them all. Elizabeth was the only one to disguise herself as a refugee from another world and get hired. They were brave…and they were fools.

"Are you going to be okay?" Rodney finally asks, when John doesn't reply. "Because this is seriously depressing."

John shrugs. "Yeah, I'll be okay." He means it. The memories will be there, Steve was right about that. They'd always be there. And now, John knew he really was a monster. He was responsible. But he was okay with it, because he was finding that to fight a monster, one needed to become the monster.

**The End**


End file.
